eech was noticeably Southern in accent, as if it were a part of
her masquerade, but she brought him a chair and confronted him without
confusion. In this calm dignity he read something entirely flattering to
himself.

"Evidently she considers me a friend as well as an officer," he
reasoned.

"I hope you are a little hungry," she said. "I'd like to have you break
bread in our house. You were mighty kind to us the other day."

"Oh, I'm hungry," he admitted, meeting her hospitality half-way. "Seems
like I'm always hungry. You see, I cook my own grub, and my bill of fare
isn't what you'd call extensive, and, besides, a man's cooking never
relishes the way a woman's does, anyhow."

"I'll see what I can find for you," she said, and hurried out.

While waiting he studied the room in which he sat with keenest interest.
It was rather larger than the usual living-room in a mountain home, but
it had not much else to distinguish it. The furniture was of the kind to
be purchased in the near-by town, and the walls were roughly ceiled with
cypress boards; but a few magazines, some books on a rude shelf, a
fiddle-box under the table, and a guitar hanging on a nail gave evidence
of refinement and taste and spoke to him of pleasures which he had only
known afar. The guitar especially engaged his attention. "I wonder if
she sings?" he asked himself.

Musing thus in silence, he heard her moving about the kitchen with rapid
tread, and when she came in, a few minutes later, bearing a tray, he
thought her beautiful--so changed was her expression.

"I didn't wait for the coffee," she smilingly explained. "You said you
were hungry and so I have brought in a little 'snack.' The coffee will
be ready soon."

"Snack!" he exclaimed. "Lady! This is a feast!" And as she put the tray
down beside him he added: "This puts me right back in Aunt Mary's house
at Circle Bend, Nebraska. I don't rightly feel fit to sit opposite a
spread like that."

She seemed genuinely amused by his extravagance. "It's nothing but a
little cold chicken and some light bread. I made the bread yesterday;
and the raspberry jam is mine also."

[Illustration: THE AUTHOR AND A FOREST RANGER]

"It's angels' food to me," he retorted, as he eyed the dainty napkins
and the silver spoons and forks. "You don't know what this means to a
man who lives on rice and prunes and kittle bread. I have a guilty
feeling; I do, indeed. Seems like I'm getting all this thanksgiving
treat